Chapter Six
And oh, the irony.
. . .
Nerissa had a table in her study. Azrael thought it said a lot about her. It wasn't particularly lavish, nor was it big, but no one could say it was not peculiar. It was more of a glorified box than anything –a box with four legs and a glass top, so that one could peer inside if they so wished. Between the glass and the wood beneath stood tiny walls that made tiny turns and had tiny openings, tall enough that they touched both top and bottom of the box. On one of the sides was a small grid, the size of a fist. When Azrael knocked, Nerissa was opening it with care with her free hand, the other holding a jar full of wasps.
«Come in.»
He walked in on her placing the mouth of the jar to the opening. The wasps angrily buzzed inside the table, dispersing in the tiny labyrinth and bumping into the glass, small, furious, gelatinous factories of venom. She closed the grid behind them, watching them with tender fascination.
«Ah, Azrael», was her greeting, a sharp, white smile on her face. «Have a seat. There's wine if you care for it.»
Azrael did not. He nonetheless poured a glass of the alcoholic mixture for his lady, offering it with a steady hand. She accepted it with a tilt of her head and Azrael could feel her power, the inexorable compression of immense age beating down on his skin, the outside world muffled with it. He felt his hair stand on end, his lips itching to peel back from his fangs in an impotent, instinctive warning. After all this time, he still felt as if it were constricting his lungs, robbing him of his unneeded air.
Nerissa circled the table, slow and measured, not in any hurry at all. Her wings were big enough to drag behind her, the massive primaries touching the floor, and as she brought the glass to her lips, she stretched them to their fullest –easily dwarfing Azrael's own, their bulk seemed to stretch for miles, a neverending white whisper in the air, and then the junctures popped and they were retreating, folding, falling back down on her large shoulders.
Awakening from his slumber with his back throbbing, feeling as raw as if someone had taken a whip to it, feeling heavier, foreign pressure holding him down to the mattress even though he was alone. The detachment with which he'd seen his wings, aware that he was in shock and rapidly falling into full-blown panic, but unable to care as he pictured the Dragonborn taking an axe to the thick, armored bones blooming from his skin.
«Did you have something to tell me, or are you here simply to gawk?»
Azrael was startled back into the present, thoughts of wings and flight evaporating as she spoke. He took a breath, filling dead lungs that did not need air.
«The demon» he murmured. «It stands at the eastern gate of the Labyrinth.»
Her eyes left the table and its buzzing contents. They pierced the lieutenant like an arrow to the knee.
«I see. What do you make of it, Azrael?»
«Naked. Not a good naked either.»
Nerissa surprised him with a burst of laughter. It was rare, hearing a sincere laugh from her. More often than not it was a mocking, bitter sound, or not a sound at all –a mere quirk of the lips, and you never knew whether she was genuinely amused or politely bored.
«We still have three, four hours of light» she murmured. «I wish to see what this so-called Messiah is capable of.»
«Do you wish to give them the map now?»
«Why, of course. It managed to solve Janos' bridges in very little time. A mere labyrinth should be very easy compared to those.»
Azrael nodded in silence. He set the halberd aside
(a place in Nerissa's own weapon rack her swords her gauntlets Zimri's weapons beside his own)
and with practiced talons began to work on the buckles of his armor.
Her hands wrapped around his, leathery skin on hard ridged claw. She was helping him unbuckle the straps and his breath hitched without him meaning it to –how easily he could turn those talons on her delicate wrists, tear into the tendons under the dark blue skin, and how quickly in turn she could burn him, strip his flesh from his bones until those, too, broke with the heat. All that raw power that Azrael had been trained to know he could feel on his skin for the smallest mistake, for neither Raziel nor Kain had been gentle Sires, and Nerissa was not, either, and yet.
Three hundred years and he still marvelled at how painfully soft she could be. Old Azrael would have laughed at such a thought –a soft vampire? Unheard of. Those were inept mistakes, and were treated as such, but he'd been through so much since then, and now this gentle attention was enough to unmake him.
There were moments in which Azrael caught a glimpse of the woman Nerissa had been. They were the worst he'd experienced since his Empire had fallen -crumbled around him with Raziel's dying scream. He could see who she could have been, if whatever had changed her so drastically hadn't happened. It was a sobering thought, if bordering on painful.
They worked in silence to get him free of the armor, and when they were done, he nestled on the floor, legs tucked under his body and leathery wings mantling the stone as he looked up at her, waiting.
Nerissa studied him a moment longer, considering, before she downed the rest of her glass and turned away, towards the balcony, to seek the demon's mind.
They had been standing in front of the enormous edifice for what felt like hours, at least to Raziel, who was not at all used to depending on someone else to solve the puzzles and enigmas he kept having to complete before each meaningful encounter. He had half a mind to just leave the priest and take his chances with whatever monster inhabited the Labyrinth –after all, he had faced his brethren, he had faced Kain, had faced the horrors of the Spectral Realm and had always come out victorious. It would not be that much of a stretch to assume he would triumph once more.
He gazed into the gaping maw that was the eastern door of the Labyrinth. The corridor he could make out beyond the threshold was dark, the stone covered in moss, and huge. The top of the walls that flanked it floated at maddening height -impossible to measure it with any accuracy-, covered in ivy and other parasitic plants. When he stepped closer to the mouth of the corridor, he heard the sounds of the Labyrinth for the first time: the faint shrieks, the snarls and cries of whatever beast dwelt within its bowels.
«The creatures are locked at this time of day, and this route is safe,» murmured Rohan, «but it will not remain so once night falls. The walls are going to move, the doors will close, and woe to all who are not in Scarborough when that happens.»
To Raziel it seemed impossible that such massive walls would ever move, but when he inspected the threshold of the Eastern Door, he found that all evidence pointed exactly towards that: from the wall standing at his right emerged large stone bars, as thick as a grown man's thigh. The first was roughly at eye-level and they went all the way to the top of the wall. On the other side of the threshold, position and size matching those of the bars, were massive holes carved into the stone, deep enough that, had Raziel wanted to, he could have fit his whole arm inside and not touched the bottom. The purpose of it all was obvious.
«Whatever these "beasts" are, I assure you that I have seen worse» said Raziel dryly, stepping back once more. The boy was pale and the wraith noticed that he was trembling finely –he looked at the dark corridor as if he were, for the first time, considering escape.
«It is almost evening», the priest said, and as soon as he spoke the last word, his eyes went glassy, his jaw dropped open and his knees gave out.
Raziel caught him before he could hit the ground and possibly bite through his tongue. Rohan's head lolled back, looking almost boneless, whole body shaking with convulsions, and Raziel felt it-
went rigid with it, because,
because he had felt the aura of elders before, of course, but none had ever been like this,
this golden wave of lassitude and powerlessness clawing at exposed muscle and sinew,
beating down on him like the wings of an immense, ancient dragon,
and it was similar enough to Kain's to be familiar and different enough to be scary, and in that moment Raziel longed for his Sire's presence, for his reassuringly powerful aura, as hateful as it had become,
and then it retreated, gone as swiftly as it had come, Rohan sagging even more in his brutal grasp, emptied out after the contact, and the air stopped being molten metal and Raziel could breathe again, and as he breathed in air he did not need he realized he had crouched on the ground and had been snarling the whole time, and for a moment
(LET ME IN)
he thought he could hear a faint snort of laughter.
The wraith had no idea how long they stayed on the ground, only that it felt like hours and that the priest was shaking violently, teeth chattering as if cold. Raziel himself felt oversensitive, as if a mere touch against his exposed musculature could send him convulsing in the luscious grass. This wasn't merely an elder touching the mind of a fledgling; this was something else, something that was meant to cut at the knees, to strip away all the fight and leave only submission behind. This was a damned weapon and Raziel had never encountered anything even remotely similar.
«I… have the map… m'lord…», panted Rohan, and his voice was absolutely mangled.
The wraith stood, shuddering, looking up at the towers of Scarborough with new wariness. The priest followed after a considerable amount of time, clutching the side of his head with a trembling hand, and for once Raziel could not bring himself to demand he be faster.
«We must move», the acolyte muttered. «It is already late. Waiting here is unwise, and the doors will close soon.»
Raziel eyed his horse with an arched eyebrow, then wordlessly grabbed the single leather bag it was carrying and slung it over his shoulder. He did not think that the creatures in the Labyrinth would be any worse than the many he had already faced, but he had no desire to follow in Kain's footsteps and allow hubris and arrogance to be his downfall. Raziel would need to be swift and ready to fight, the horse would only hinder him.
Behind the wraith, Rohan lifted a heavy leather saddle from the chariot.
«The map, boy.»
Grey eyes narrowed in confusion. «Huh?»
«I do not need you to hinder me.»
«My lord…»
The growl that rattled the soul-devourer's ribs was thunderous, a rumble of sound that made both horses stomp and whinny in distress. The priest inhaled sharply, though to his credit he did not shrink back.
«My lord, please, think this through. Besides the fact that I would never betray my lady-»
«Oh, please-»
«-they will never let you in, if you go alone. Lady Nerissa's protection does extend to her humans. Should I come to harm, she will hunt you down. She has done so before.»
«You are not a particularly gifted liar. Last warning. Your lady is not the only one capable of Whispering.»
Rohan swallowed thickly, his grip on the reins turning spasmodic and his breathing going erratic.
«My lord, please, you don't understand-»
But Raziel had never been a patient man.
The acolyte resisted valiantly, the wraith had to give him that. Valiantly enough that, when he inevitably succumbed to Raziel's ancient mind, the spectral dweller -sated as he was and recently fed- felt no need to melt his mind and tear his screaming soul from his body. Once he had what he'd been looking for, Raziel retreated, leaving the boy intact and largely unharmed.
«My lord, I beg of you, please, she will kill me- she will burn Dellmeadow to the ground- please-»
Raziel tuned his screams out. A sharp turn to the left and he disappeared from sight, swallowed by the rapidly darkening corridors of Nerissa's Labyrinth.
Raziel would never understand the love that Nosgoth's most powerful inhabitants seemed to have for puzzles. It was just not practical, horridly time consuming and disgustingly frustrating -even though, compared to some of the other enigmas he had had to solve, the Labyrinth seemed, for now, fairly simple. He had yet to encounter any of the beasts he could hear grunting behind thick stone; a hopeful sign, as he had had no means to ascertain whether the boy -or his lady, for that matter- had been telling the truth about them being locked up. Nevertheless, light was a precious resource he had little of, thus forcing him to run instead of allowing him a slower, more prudent pace.
If Scarborough has any troops, they'll have fun navigating this place.
Of course, there was always the possibility of hidden passages. Underground, maybe? But Rohan had spoken of winged creatures. Had this Nerissa erected a haven for a surviving group of Ancients? Or had she simply turned enough people to create herself an army?
The wraith sighed and adjusted the cowl over his missing jaw -the coarse fabric kept getting snagged by the bag's large strap and falling on his chest. He briefly contemplated acquiring some sort of brooch to keep it where it belonged about his shoulders.
Left, right, left again, and now a long stretch of clear path, barely illuminated by the last rays of sunset. The light was reflected back at him by the dew that covered the stone floor, thousands of tiny rainbows blooming and dying in a heartbeat, and the smell of the leaves of ivy was stronger here, vines upon vines climbing and strangling each other, and still the beasts howled.
Raziel suspected he would forever have a bone-deep horror for endless screams and faint crying. The Spectral Realm was never truly silent, not even when he had been completely alone –and that was false, too, was it not? The Elder God had eyes everywhere. It had tentacles everywhere. Could see everything, but for the next move his pawn would make.
The thought of being eternally trapped with that creature filled him with a dread he had thought he would never feel again.
The ice that had filled his veins when he had gazed into the Abyss. The horror of his brothers' hands moving up his arms, Kain's voice muffled in the background of the blood roaring in his ears.
And they were all dead now.
Left, left, right and right again, a long corridor and left once more.
How vicious had his joy been, as he'd seen what had become of them.
And yet.
Do you not recognize me, brother?
He tried to clench his jaw and growled when he couldn't.
Melchiah had done nothing, none of them had, and the wraith would have expected it of Turel –was, in fact, sure the bastard would have squealed in glee when Raziel had been cast into the Abyss, had he been free to do so, but Melchiah?
And the last of Kain's brood had been dealt a poor hand indeed, both before and after Raziel's demise. The wraith felt his muscles twitch as he remembered the putrid, rotting mass of bodies that his youngest brother had become.
A sharp turn to the right, then through a passage between two walls. A few dangling vines slapped his face, the green of the leaves turning almost to orange in the burning light of nightfall. He batted them away and glanced up at the sky with resigned certainty.
And with slow trepidation, he knew the sun had dived under the horizon, and to his ears came a faint sound, carried by the wind, as unmistakable as it was foreboding: the screeching sound of stone on stone, walls of incommensurable weight dragging on the floor, the sound of the doors of the Labyrinth beginning to close.
«A pity.»
Azrael could do little more than blink dazedly up at her, the stone uncomfortably hot under his oversensitive body. He was shivering, teeth chattering wildly, his eyes like embers inside the pulsating migraine his head had become, but Nerissa was caressing his face distractedly, gaze directed out into the balcony, and the action was enough to keep him calm and pliant under her large hands.
«It… did not pass through?»
She looked at him then, and he blinked when he saw reddish tears in her eyes.
«It did not.»
The Dragonborn slid an arm under his knees and the other around his shoulders, his leathery wings dragging uselessly at her feet -Azrael too weak to even draw them close to his body. She deposited him onto her bed with a gentleness few had seen in her and with careful hands she bent his wings and furled them into their proper resting position, a constant croon from her slender throat. Zimri was already there, of course, stirring only slightly when Azrael curled among the pillows and soft sheets, his whole body shuddering violently, the uncontrollable quaking subsiding only when he felt himself cocooned in white, white wings.
«Sleep, dear Azrael. You did well.»
«M… my…»
«Ssshh,» she murmured, and kissed his temple, down his jaw, bit shallowly at his exposed throat and settled beside him, holding him close -gently hushing, her voice like the rumbling purr of a large feline, and he could do nothing but shudder and slip into exhausted slumber.
Nothing happened for a long time. So long, in fact, that Raziel began to suspect that Nerissa Graves had never had beasts in the Labyrinth –had merely let the stories and rumours grow, while her actual victims wandered through the corridors until hunger and thirst claimed them, and the screams and howls he could hear were the product of enchantments. The walls were moving around him, but their size made the movements slow, mere centimetres in many minutes. Raziel figured that if he could reach the end of the Labyrinth, he could wait the night out there till dawn opened the doors once more.
He listened more attentively to the howls the closer he came to the end of the route. They did not appear to be getting closer, were in fact become fainter, less collective screeches and more distinguishable voices. He recognized agony in those screams, longing, even, but under it all was a current of anger, fury so strong it could raze the world down if let loose. Like caged animals, these creatures (real or manufactured) raged against their keepers, demanding freedom.
The irony, again, was not lost on him. The fact that he had actually managed to smash his shackles was of little importance, given how new, sturdier bonds kept dangling over his head.
Oh, but Raziel could give the Elder God a hard time, friends and neighbours. He would give the bastard so hard a time it would choke.
Thoughts of vengeance spurred him on much better than his previous considerations on his brethren. Melancholy was hardly suited for quests such as these, as Kain had demonstrated more times than Raziel could count.
When she came, she came without fanfare, starving and dressed in rags but still mostly held together. She was a far cry from the deformed abominations that had become of his brothers' children. This one, while wounded and scarred, still had the luxury of recognizable features.
But the eyes.
Oh, the eyes.
They were wide and shining and terrified and hurting, hurting, hurting, complex geometries of briars in their pupils. Sunk in her gaunt, pale face, it was like looking in the Sluaghs' maddened eyes. Like a Sluagh, she was limping. Like a Sluagh, she lunged at him with an open maw.
Raziel reacted on instinct –he parried her claws with his own talons, feeling her needle-like teeth sink in the flesh of his forearm. In a flurry of movement, his ruined wings like veils, he twisted his wounded arm -the wounds closing almost as soon as she let go of the bite- and instead wrapped it around her neck, locking her in a chokehold which would have shattered a fledgling –as it was, her neck only made a sound like a branch snapping. She snarled and bucked like a terrified horse, scratching and slashing at him with powerful claws, one of her elbows catching him on a protruding rib with enough force to break it clean in two. Raziel hardly noticed as he pierced her chest with hardened talons, crushing her spine and her lungs and her heart in a single killing blow.
It was quick after that. Paralyzed and limp, she could do nothing when Raziel tore her screaming soul from her body, and then those screams, too, died out.
Readjusting the cowl over his face, Raziel grimaced as her body seemed to deflate, before disintegrating into ash. The blood coating his hand and arm turned to fine grey dust while his rib snapped back into place with a faint crack. He unconsciously rubbed a hand on his teeth, trying to get rid of that horridly bitter taste.
Not beasts, then, even though what remained of these vampires was little more than that. He saw how these creatures would be a challenge to the foolhardy human that dared venture inside the place. A maddened vampire would be a difficult hunt for anyone, except, maybe, a Sarafan warrior –and in this time and place, apparently, they weren't a threat anymore. Moebius' soldiers had been nowhere to be seen, either. If Raziel had needed any further proof that Nerissa was more akin to Vorador than to Janos, this would have been it.
He kept moving, slower this time, but still conscious of the passing of time. He could not afford to become stuck in this place; even a single minute could make the difference, and even if Janos' death had been too high a price for that lesson, it was at least one that Raziel was not at all prone to forgetting.
The constant thrum of the Reaver was his only companion for a long stretch of time, after he moved on from the scattered ashes of the woman's body. He did not allow the wraith blade to uncoil from his arm, not yet, although he knew with somber certainty that he would not leave Scarborough without needing it.
He walked through a great stone arch and stilled, listening carefully for the sound of steps under the constant wails of the remaining vampires of the Labyrinth. They were all far, their sounds faint. Raziel was safe for now, not that they represented a particularly serious threat –not for him, anyway. He was oddly grateful for the relative simplicity of the current enigma, as absolutely tedious as it was.
The Labyrinth was slowly falling silent. With a low scoff, the wraith slinked forward.
Oh, but what a long night this would be.
As it turned out, mad vampires were smarter than sane ones. Raziel saw the one in front of him stop dead in his tracks, staring at the wraith first with confusion, then with slowly dawning horror. The fledge stepped back, stumbling, his bracelets and necklaces tinkling softly with his movements, before turning tail and fleeing as fast as his unsteady legs could carry him.
Had he still had a mouth, Raziel would have grinned.
Raziel could see the end of the corridor now, opening on a huge door; the mirror to the one that led into the Labyrinth proper. He sprinted towards it just as dawn broke over the horizon –and with the deafening sound of stone grinding on stone, the door began to slide sideways, showing what lay beyond the endless twists and turns of the maze: an elegant flight of stairs and, further still, what appeared to be a narrow bridge, both of which were made out of black-veined marble.
He slid between the still moving door and the wall, slowing as he walked up to the steps that separated him from the city itself. Deprived of skin and possessing only the scraps of a face, he found his body could still somewhat express anticipation: he could feel his muscles twitch, seizing and releasing in his arms and legs. Even the tatters of his wings trembled, the soft breeze being enough to make torn, useless tissue shiver.
They had been standing so still that Raziel had mistaken them for exquisitely painted statues. Only when he'd taken the first step on the bridge did he realize they were alive –but by then the first arrow had bounced off the stone not two feet from his talons, and the second was firmly nocked in front of an achingly familiar face.
«I'll put the next one between your eyes,» growled the vampire, the two others accompanying him bursting into laughter around him, and Raziel was suddenly in a time and place far away from Scarborough, surrounded by tents and trees; amongst his own around a fire they did not need but enjoyed anyway, and there was blood and adrenaline and lingering aches and laughter and warmth, and the man that now gazed at Raziel from behind an exquisitely crafted bow had been at his side, close enough to bump shoulders, sharing his kill.
«Azrael,» he whispered, and the vampire sneered.
«It speaks!», and gods, Azrael had always been such a cheeky knave –but any irritation he might have felt was eclipsed by the sound of that voice.
Azrael, Azrael, oh gods above mercy, mercy, mercy on Raziel's rotten not-soul…
Azrael was talking. His words registered a moment later, muffled and far away in the daze of Raziel's shock.
«What has become of the boy?»
He almost didn't understand the question. His voice came out a croak. «Left him.»
«Dead?»
«No.»
«Walk.»
Azrael nodded sharply towards the city, the city that now Raziel could see better, with its white walls, white towers and white buildings, all painted blue in the barely-there light of the neonate sun. The bridge led to large, dark wooden doors which were manned by yet more guards. On the towers flanking the door, the wraith could see archers with drawn weapons -the glint of the arrowheads was a flash of soft light in the pastel colours of the sky. Black banners swayed gently in the breeze, the symbol of the city woven upon them –a pair of white wings that seemed made of sharply drawn flames, or perhaps very impractical blades. They began in the middle of the banner to curve elegantly towards the edges, seemingly reaching out like thorny tree branches. It was a more elaborate design than the clan markings Raziel and his brethren had favored, although it looked no less menacing.
With the two unknown vampires' spears prickling his back, Raziel let himself be led over the bridge, Azrael walking in front of him in silence. He could scarcely tear his eyes from his firstborn's golden hair, the colour just a shade warmer than Kain's own silver mane. Suddenly, Raziel wished he could remember the feeling of that hair between his fingers. A mistake on his part, to believe immortality to mean forever.
The guards at the door spared but a glance to the little group while they passed through, but it was enough. Their faces twisted in a grimace of barely-hidden horror, before they masterfully concealed their reaction once more. Raziel thought he recognized them, vague memories of the Sanctuary of the Clans coming back unbidden, but before he could properly analyze them, he was led past the door and into the city proper.
The first impression of Scarborough was one of airiness. Unlike the human settlements Raziel had come to find familiar, or even the grounds of the Sanctuary and the territories of the other Clans, Scarborough seemed to have been, very recently, scrubbed down from roofs to streets, until every last speck of filth had been removed. The houses were similar to those Raziel had seen while travelling through Uschtenheim -stone and thick logs, designed to weather storms and floods. Unlike those, though, these buildings were made of cream-coloured stone and were separated by much wider streets, which had been stone-paved to allow for better passage of wheeled means of transportation. Flanking every street were gutters and drains, kept in perfect working order. All buildings had large windows and some even small balconies, and in front of both, stuck deep into the stone so they would not fall off, were thick metal bars that could have easily held a grown man's weight. The spacious streets and tall, slim design of the buildings allowed a clear view of the wide open skies, giving the place an air of brightness and freedom –the freedom, Raziel supposed, that he too would have felt, had Kain not taken his wings from him.
And beyond houses and shops, towering over all, stood the Dragonborn's white castle, its slender spires and pinnacles floating at vertigo-inducing height.
Armored guards stood among the other inhabitants, the white capes they wore making them all the more noticeable. Raziel glanced at them as the crowd parted for Azrael and his following, predictable murmurs and gasps of horror coursing through their mouths, and his gaze fell almost distractedly on a little child staring at him with wide grey eyes.
Raziel's thoughts brusquely ground to a halt as he processed the sight and his own glowing eyes widened a fraction as he realized that many in that crowd were human.
Nor were they bloodslaves, by the look of it. These were well-fed, healthy people standing among vampires as if they belonged there, together, side by side. The guards were making no moves to rein the humans in, nor were the latter wearing any chains or cuffs, and while the majority were sporting the bruises that normally accompanied a vampire bite, they did not look -nor smell- afraid.
«You would do well not to linger, demon», said Azrael, a hint of amusement in his rich earthy voice. «Lady Nerissa does not like to be kept waiting.»
Raziel growled at him -his own fledgling, daring to disrespect him thusly! Azrael would have regretted it bitterly, had he still been under Raziel's rule.
«Did you make a habit of living with rats in your home?» Raziel groused. His firstborn gave a wry smile.
«I'd wager we have softened over the years. We did allow you entrance, after all.»
How are you alive? Kain… and Melchiah… I was told they had murdered you all. I saw our grounds. I saw the destruction of our home. How did you survive?
«Come, demon.»
Azrael did not wait for his reply, instead leading him through the crowd and into what appeared to be a large square, in the middle of which stood a great stone fire pit. Carts and vendors were occupying the entirety of the square and filled the place with screams and calls. They all fell into deferent silence when they saw Azrael, but their admiration quickly soured to unconcealed disgust when they saw what he was escorting. Had Raziel been able to do so, he would have sneered at them.
Who are you to these people, mine own? To Nerissa Graves?
They were let through with a mere nod from his firstborn. The crowd parted and the street cleared with hardly any effort on the guards' part, leaving the path open and unobstructed, the path leading straight to the gates of the castle.
Azrael had not recognized him.
The thought pierced Raziel suddenly, as if his mind had only just caught up with the fact. Azrael had not recognized him –not a twitch, not a flicker of doubt in his fledgling's chiselled, angular face.
How could he? No one returns from the Abyss. It has been ingrained in him for centuries. What reason would he have to doubt that truth?
He must never know.
It was an icy punch in the gut he no longer possessed.
If only for the way Azrael was being obeyed almost without need for words, it was clear that he was someone who held power in this city. And anyone who had power had to be connected with the sovereign.
Which, in turn, meant Azrael had to be connected with Nerissa Graves. Nerissa, who had a mind so powerful it had brought Raziel to his knees.
She will know as soon as the words leave me, he thought. As charitable as she might be… and it mustn't be much, considering the depictions… she will not tolerate even the slightest sliver of doubt of her lieutenants' loyalty.
No, Raziel would need to keep the truth to himself, unless he wished for Azrael to end up like he himself had. He would need to keep that truth close, even against another attack from Nerissa.
The guards at the doors nodded at Raziel's firstborn as they let them through. Scarborough's symbol, carved at the exact centre of the wooden doors, split in two when they opened.
Somewhere in the depths of the Abyss, the burnt remains of Raziel's heart might have beat.
The hall was circular and large enough to comfortably accommodate an entire house. The floor was cold, black-veined marble, scrubbed so clean Raziel could see the faint reflection of the ceiling and its enormous brass chandelier. The walls were just slightly darker, a faint bluish hue to them that the floor lacked. At the far end of the hall, a large, curved marble staircase led to the internal balcony that overlooked the place, which was flooded by the cold light that the huge windows let in. The hall opened on a large, brightly illuminated white corridor that led to the rest of the manor.
A vampire was waiting at the foot of the stairs, her back ramrod straight and hands delicately held behind her back. It felt like a dejà-vu.
Janos Audron?
«Not quite, boy.»
Her voice was guttural, pitched low and soft, softer than what Raziel had expected. He stood frozen on the threshold of the hall, glowing blank gaze trained on the winged woman who was staring at him with eyes as green as poison.
Nerissa Graves was a tall woman, he noted with some sort of vague resentment, and the outline of the body he could see beneath the light white shirt confirmed his suspicion that she was also very muscular. There was little of the softness of a woman's body on her, her torso being almost as wide and flat as Raziel's had been when he'd still had a torso to speak of. Her shoulders were easily as broad as Azrael's and the line of her shirt was crumpled by the powerful flight muscles at her back.
On the other hand, her visage was delicate, finely chiselled, although no one would have ever described it as 'fragile'. Her shapely mouth was curved into a subtle, wry smile, as if she were in on a joke that nobody else had heard, and the fine lines around her eyes made them stony, set in a barely-there mocking frown. The skin she was showing was blue, but not Janos' light azure hue –hers was much darker, darker even than Raziel's, a winter midnight made all the more vivid by the blindingly white wings that rested about her shoulders.
White.
I thought all Ancients had black wings.
«And I thought one needed a functioning diaphragm in order to speak, but here we are.» Nerissa smiled indulgently at him, a dark eyebrow quirking. «To be fair to you, I am an Ancient in little more than appearance. A very fortunate circumstance, more unique than rare.»
She waved at the guards accompanying Raziel, an elegant gesture. Both the soldiers at the wraith's back and those at her sides bowed before retreating, leaving only Azrael, Nerissa and Raziel himself standing in the great hall.
Nerissa walked forward with the slow, dangerous prowl of a feline about to strike. Her bare feet were silent on the marble, her eyes burning holes in him, as if she were trying to see beneath the surface of the blue tattered flesh.
«So it is you,» she murmured. Black curls framed her face as she bent forward, examining Raziel's remains of a face with those stony absinthe eyes. There was something there, roiling in their depths, but it was too muted for Raziel to decipher. He arched an eyebrow instead.
«If it consoles you, I too am disappointed in this form.»
She chuckled, low and rich. This close, he could smell her –the delicate scent of lilacs and the pungent bite of pepper, and beneath was a smell that reminded him of the smoky fragrance of burning wood.
«I will admit I was expecting something a little different,» she said, straightening again with a small smile. Her eyes glinted like steel. «But let it not be said that Scarborough is anything less than courteous to all of her guests. Welcome… Messiah.»
I do not own in any way, shape or form the characters featured in this story, nor the story's cover, nor the quote at the beginning of each chapter. I only own my OCs and the plot.
Forgive the eternal wait. I fell into the Abyss :(